Here is the house
by Cracked Actress
Summary: From Chapter 1: "John hit me, John has insulted me, John barely listened to me, John is not sure if he can forgive me, John is married, John will no longer live in Baker Street, John will not follow me anymore to the crime scenes, John remains at an anonymous house with a woman that he doesn't even know."
1. With or without words

"Three years, Sherlock."  
"John…"  
"No. Shut up, I do not want to hear anything you have to say."

The words full of anger uttered by John brought back the silence onto the small living room where the revived detective and his ex-blogger sat around the coffee table at a safe distance. Sherlock is trying to focus on the upset and trembling figure of his best friend while putting up his most apologetic face, but the instinct of exploring his surroundings is much stronger. His eyes alight inquiringly on the surface of the smooth table: birch wood, poor quality, certainly bought in a department store for less than a hundred pounds. That woman is likely to be the practical type and prone to savings. The light color of the wood and the basic shape of the table perfectly fit the simple and cozy atmosphere that characterizes the house, located at Algernon Road, at the middle of a quiet residential area of Kilburn. Business district, peripheral but still in zone two, well connected with the center via the Jubilee line.  
At only five stops from Baker Street.  
The kitchen is clean and tidy, fashionably and elegantly furnished. A painting and a bigger picture are hung on the wall. Without any doubt Sunflowers by Van Gogh and John along with the woman on the day of their marriage. He wears an out of date blue tuxedo, while she wears a white suit, simple but appropriate.  
It was a simple ceremony, nothing too extravagant. Certainly in line with the personality of John.  
"You cannot deduct three years of my life by simply looking around."  
Sherlock immediately glares at John.  
"Is she your wife?"  
The silly and naïve question came out of his lips before even giving it a second thought.  
"Yes", replied John laconically without adding any details, his eyes fixed on his clenched fists resting on the table.  
"Congratulations." Sherlock's deep voice seemed to come from very far away.  
Another moment of silence, interrupted only by the annoying ticking clock hanging above the window. Sherlock would like to apologize once again, or better ask him. During the last three years spent dismantling Moriarty's criminal organization, Sherlock tried to imagine several times the moment when he would meet John. He predicted almost everything: the initial fainting in front of his imposing figure silhouetted against the door, the phase of denial in which he would think of him as an hallucination and finally the thunderous rage once he realized that it was really him in person. After the many punches and pushes away, he would have begged him to listen. He then would list the reasons for his disappearance and the phases of the hunt and John would have forgiven him. Yes, he would have forgiven him and they would be back to live together in Baker Street, despite the resentment, the scars and the existence of that woman whom Mycroft had spoken vaguely of. He did not think that John could be married upon his return, or that he would react with stubborn silence to his tale worthy of the most exciting thriller. It seems that his fake suicide is of no interest at all.  
"Does it hurt?" John's eyes are fixed on Sherlock's nose, to the particular trickle of dried blood that stains his skin; his voice does not hide a certain amount of satisfaction. The detective, suddenly distracted by his thoughts, does not respond and just shakes his head firmly. They remain in silence for a few more minutes, each perched on their chair, indifferent to the presence of the other. The sound of a key turning in the lock startles them both at the same time and they turn toward the door.  
Mary is scrutinizing them motionless in the dim light of the entrance, with a bag of groceries in her arms. Red cheeks, wide eyes, mouth agape: embarrassment, loss, grief.  
"Sorry to interrupt, I'm going back again if..."  
Sherlock snaps abruptly, standing as if his chair had become suddenly hot.  
"No need, Sherlock was just leaving. I'll take him out."John hisses before the other can utter any word, getting up and heading to the direction of the short path leading to the exit. Mary stares intently facing Sherlock – giving him a cold nod - and then she nods at her husband once he is next to the door, before walking away quickly in the direction of the kitchen.  
After opening the door with unnecessary strength, John's hands linger for a bit too long on the handle.  
"Will you be back in Baker Street?"  
"Yes, I must speak with Mrs. Hudson, she does not know anything yet. The apartment is free, as you know John, so we can back there immediately. I already bought new equipment and a microscope, given that Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson didn't give you my things. I do not know what lame school full of kids accepted them. " His mouth twists into a disgusted grimace as he raises the collar of his coat and turns around, he walks theatrically towards the street.  
"I'll meet you tomorrow!" He says when he is already halfway. His voice firm and secure.  
It is only when he opens the door of his apartment and he is about to set foot on the linoleum floor that he realizes he had received no answer. It has never been a problem during the time they had lived together, but he realizes that deep silence had much more importance this time. He suddenly stops and turns back.  
He sees John standing on the threshold with a grim expression on his face. The doctor swallows and speaks more loudly to overcome the noise of the siren of an ambulance that echoes not far away from them.  
"I can't and I don't want to go back and live with you in Baker Street. My house is this one now. "  
The harsh revelation overwhelms him like a wave of mud. He would like to point out to him the absurdity of that statement. 221b without John? It is just unbelievable! Of course, he has to come back. His home, their home is now empty, it's silent and abandoned. The balance must be restored. The objection dies in his throat as he opens his mouth to speak. He frowns and a tilts his head on a side staring at John, who seems extremely uncomfortable.  
"I don't know if I can ever forgive you, Sherlock."  
Sherlock had not expected that. Sherlock hated surprises.  
He simply nodded and quickly rushed to the sidewalk clutching his coat. He knows that he won't keep his train of thought uncluttered for long, he wishes to get away from that place as soon as possible. Just as he reaches the intersection of Victoria Road, an incredible amount of thoughts strikes him like a whip and Sherlock presses his temples with his hands in pain.  
_John hit me, John has insulted me, John barely listened to me, John is not sure if he can forgive me, John is married, John will no longer live in Baker Street, John will not follow me anymore to the crime scenes, John remains at an anonymous house with a woman that he doesn't even know.  
_

* * *

"John, do you want me to warm up the soup for you? It's been long since you sat there still, looking at it; it must be frozen by now. "  
The man snorts and drops the spoon in the pot. He even forgot where the hell he was.  
"I'm sorry, Mary, it's that it does not seem possible. It's all so absurd..."  
His wife gently caresses his forearm and gives him a sad smile.  
"I know..." she reassures him, but John shakes his head vigorously.  
"No, you don't know, nobody knows how it feels like to see their best friend after three years in which you believed that he was dead, in a cemetery, where you went to see him at least once a week! No one knows, this just can't be, it's not possible! "  
"John, calm down." Mary tightens her grip on his arm.  
"How can I calm down? What should I do? Help me because I have no idea, I just know that I'd like to kick him nonstop!" He jumps up from his chair and leans against the kitchen counter, covering his face with his hands. He is angry, scared and happy; these are three feelings that cannot absolutely coexist.  
"John, listen to me," Mary stands in front of him and grabs his wrists removing the hands covering his face, looking at him straight to his eyes, "in the past two years you have done nothing but tell me how much you were missing Sherlock, that he was unique and that there would never be anyone like him. You told me that you were full of regrets, because you never told him you loved him and that you never thanked him for having changed your life. Can't you see? Now you can do it, you..."  
"But he never died Mary; while I was struggling for him and talking about how much I cared for him he was somewhere with his mind occupied by his hunt and he didn't even remember my existence!"  
"You say that because you're hurt, but you know why he did it. It wasn't easy for him either, right? "  
"I don't care how it was for him, I was the one who stuffed sleeping pills to not see him fall off the damn building every night!" On an instant, John frees himself from the woman holding him and walks away with his hands on his hips. "May I ask why are you defending him?"  
"I'm not defending him; I'm trying to help you! I understand you're angry, but now that you know he did it to protect you, don't punish him any more than necessary, he is your friend!"  
"No, Mary. No." He turns to look at her with narrowed eyes and pursed lips. "He could have let me know in some way, a message, a damn phone call and I would have left him alone. He only took me for a fool-"  
"He didn't want to risk it and make a mistake, no doubt, but he apologized! Try to think rationally!"  
"You cannot be serious! You saw me, you saw how bad I was, and if it was not for you I don't know where I would be now..."  
"And if not for him, we wouldn't probably even know each other; you'd be dead by now." Mary's exasperated yell silenced him. He clenches his fists and opens his mouth to say something, but he fails and snorts again. A part of him knows that his wife is right as always, after all.  
"Promise me that you'll speak to him again and you'll try to forgive him. Don't hurt yourself more, John, you've suffered enough." Mary approaches him and slowly puts her arms around him, framing her head under his chin. John strokes her hair with his lips, closing his tired eyes and focusing solely on her perfume. He knows that eventually he will follow her advice, because they were the only positive things in three years of hell.  
"What have I done to deserve a woman like you?" He whispers.  
"Don't flatter me only because the football game is on TV tonight, you will not win this time!" After hours of tension John finally gives her one of his real smiles, and let himself to the embrace of his confident wife.

* * *

The messy head of Mrs. Hudson begins to weigh on his bony shoulder, causing her a light numbness, but Sherlock seems to not care. Over the past three years, the woman had learnt to endure the pain. She had reacted better than expected given the blind faith that she has on his will. She bursts out in tears of relief only when she had made sure he was okay. Sherlock had to tell her almost about everything. The travel, the ambushes, the encounters and shootings that had brought him back to London still alive. Though he tried to shorten his story telling, he ended up talking for almost an hour. Sitting with his back stiff against her landlord's couch, he started to feel the fatigue of those days that have passed without a moment of rest.  
After meeting with John, Sherlock didn't return to Baker Street. He waited as promised, sending a bunch of SMS per day... John never replied and never called back, as he had always done in the past because he said that talking personally was much faster and easier. It had been six days, three hours and thirty minutes since Sherlock saw John for the last time on the threshold of his house. He waited more than he could, but that day Mycroft convinced him there was no more time to wait. Strange rumors had started to spread about his return from the dead, rumors that had to be confirmed as soon as possible. As his brother did not fail to repeat to him countless times, providing an official, credible and detailed version of what really happened to the detective Sherlock Holmes was the priority right now.  
"John will forgive you eventually." He said with his usual phlegm, perched on his chair, stroking the glass of well-aged scotch clutched in his hand.  
Sherlock decides to wake Mrs. Hudson by loudly clearing his throat and shrugging his shoulder, making her jump and emit a cry.  
"Oh dear, I was just resting my eyes for a moment!" The woman murmured, her voice still slurred as she quickly gets up.  
"Your hip has gotten better, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says looking up and down at her. "The evident fact that you started to dress better, the fact that you lightly put on a pound or more, and the fact that your skin appears to be much more delicate suggests the existence of some kind of boyfriend and an alarming resumption of sexual activity. Am I wrong? I doubt it, it's pretty obvious."  
"Sherlock" she scolds him blushing and smoothing her skirt with her hands, then she gives him an embarrassed and mischievous smile at the same time.  
"I knew it!" The detective says, putting his feet on the couch and pushing himself up with a jump, perfectly maintaining the balance despite sinking into the soft cushions. "Who is it? I want a name!"He adds shouting.  
"His name is Ronald, he lives on the other side of the road, and he has just retired and ..."  
"Ronald Jenkins, 72, a former blacksmith? One night I saw him in a car as he sucked the lip of an escort, a male escort. Perhaps it would be better to leave him alone and to concentrate your renewed sexual outbursts on men that aren't liars."  
Mrs. Hudson remains motionless for a moment, with a frozen smile on her lips, then she caresses her cheek with the palm and whispers, as if nothing had happened, "I'll get the key to the apartment, dear!" And disappears into the kitchen.

The landlady has left him alone in front of the open door, as if she feared his overreaction in seeing again the place that has been his home for a year and a half. His pace is unusually slow and calculated as he crosses the threshold of 221b. The air smells of dust despite the fact that Mrs. Hudson didn't even make pass a week without going to the apartment to keep it clean under the express request of Mycroft, who for three years had paid the entire bill of the rent. The poor woman had naively believed that he did it to preserve the memory of his brother, in a rare burst of tenderness.  
Two different chairs positioned opposite one another welcome his eyes, and give free way to his chain of thoughts in which he keeps useless memories of him and John having tea while reading the newspaper in the morning. Memories when they were having a glass of wine after solving an intricate murder case followed by the release of tension each one had in their own way - Sherlock insulting the host of a variety show on TV and John noting the events of the day to make a post for his blog. Useless memories, which certainly wouldn't help him to find out the culprit among ten innocent men, but that he can't forget by only his own will as he has always did with those social gestures of which he has never cared of. Repetitive and boring situations with no purpose other than to pass the time waiting for a new adrenaline rush. Sherlock doesn't know why he can't think of the moments he had shared with his flat mate, and that's something really rare that scares him and irritates him at the same time.  
He understood since a long time now, probably since the first time his eyes met the blue and sincere ones of the other, that John was different from anyone else that he ever met. Yet he doesn't understand why he feels flattered by his compliments, why he feels uncomfortable when he thinks of hurting him, he doesn't understand that oppressive sense of loneliness he feels right now and that still has not left him even for an instant during the three years he spent away from him. He is annoyed, because if there is something that Sherlock hates the most in the entire world it's his inability to understand things, but for some time now he has made a habit to dwell on those memories as if they were clues to be examined again and again because there is something that he still doesn't understand. A sociopath does not feel lonely, does not need anyone, and is indifferent, dishonest and aggressive. All that Sherlock needs is his work and he is the only consulting detective in the world. Loneliness is an implicit consequence; it should not touch him in any way. John seems to have gotten into his life just to teach him not to take anything for granted.  
It only takes a moment to quickly examine the objects that belonged to him and that waited in the empty house for three years. Almost nothing has been moved and he's glad for that because for him working in an unknown environment according to different criteria other than his own is extremely difficult. Sherlock doesn't waste his time touching the different object that belonged to him; the skull, the knife used as a paperweight, the closed laptop lying unused on the desk, he doesn't lose himself in materialistic feelings of familiarity. He sits naturally on his black chair as if only few days had passed since the last time he was in there and folds his hands under his chin. There is no absolute silence in Baker Street: you always hear the loud noise of a siren in the distance, trivial noises that makes you understand how the rhythm of a big city like London is incessant. Somehow, Sherlock feels reassured in experiencing that life that rushes undisturbed: it is his place; it's an area of experimentation. The city needs him and he needs the city, in an unstated relationship of interdependence.  
He waits for the day when he can finally regain his identity and reputation, and yet he does not feel nervous, he does not feel the slight feeling of expectation or curiosity. He had imagined it more than once, and John was always at his side, because he had to be.  
John seems to have burst into his life to teach him not to take anything for granted, and Sherlock once again didn't get the lesson.  
Just for this time Mrs. Hudson had offered to prepare the bed, just for this time, as she always says she's not a housekeeper - but as he has kindly pointed out, he does not need it. He is widely able to control the inevitable fatigue that overcomes him. For a person like him always enthralled with thinking and always doing many things at once, sleeping was just a waste of time. The biggest mockery of humanity.  
Sherlock stands up hastily and heads toward the kitchen to prepare himself a coffee. He knows that Mrs. Hudson has definitely not left 221b without coffee, although it was uninhabited. The table is one of the few parts of the house that in its emptiness shows the signs of the absence of the eccentric flat-mate. Sherlock snorts at the memory of the valuable scientific equipment that had always occupied that table and that now is in the hands of inexperienced and inept young students. Suddenly he remembers the only material object, which he had really missed during his forced absence, and he wonders if it was given to a school as well. Forgetting the coffee he was going to prepare, he quickly runs to the corridor and heads to his room. He finds the door closed but he doesn't hesitate to throw it open; he stops only when a strange smell he doesn't recognize hits his nostrils. That set of furniture would seem foreign to him if it weren't for the violin case resting on the mattress of the unmade bed, partially covered by a white cotton towel. He takes the violin out of its cover with unusual delicacy that he reserves only to that tool and stares at it for a few minutes in silence as if he wanted to apologize to it for his long absence. Sherlock carefully browses through the music sheet thrown together inside a plastic folder and finds a song he had composed for John at the last birthday they had spent together. It had been a rather memorable evening in which Sherlock had had a monologue about how useless and sometimes disturbing celebrating birthdays could be. An evening full of embarrassing words said by Molly about sex and corpses, and last but not the least a sad hangover of Lestrade who had spent a couple of hours describing in details everything about his wife whom had just left him. It was probably the worst birthday of his life, but John had not complained.  
Sherlock grabs the violin, the bow and the music sheet, and leaves the room; he decided to play for the first time in three years, standing by the window. But when he goes into the living room with a fast but silent pace, he doesn't stop and continues towards the entrance and up to the stairs only to stop in front of the closed door of John's room. He opens the door forcefully as he always did when they lived together, earning John's useless protest. He enters almost furtively, shutting the door behind him. Unlike Sherlock's room, it is practically empty, except for a pair of old pants hanging in the open closet. It has been empty for three long years in which Sherlock had missed John thinking about his return as the moment when everything would be back in its place. It's been empty for six days against all logic after meeting him again. John should be in this room, berating him for having entered without knocking. Instead, it is still empty, and Sherlock doesn't want to think whether it will be forever empty. His brain does not want to observe, to process and deduct, because he knows that the deduction that he'd get would not be pleasant to his eyes.  
Laying the music sheet on the dresser, he leans his chin on the violin and begins to play; he listens carefully to the first high notes of the instrument that fill the still air of the small room. He keeps playing as his eyes rapidly shift on the music staves until the song ends, hinting a brief smile of farewell, as if someone could see it. Then he fishes out his cell phone from his pocket and types a few words that his fingers begin to write automatically, out of habit.  
He doesn't need to scroll through the phonebook to find the number he needs. John is the first one on the list.

_I'll be waiting – SH  
_

* * *

_I'll be waiting – SH_

John tried to understand the cause of his insomnia that has plagued him for eight days by now. The blankets are too warm, the pillow is too soft, Mary snores. He never told her openly for the fear of making her feel embarrassed. The first time that they had slept together and he had found it out, he thought it was rather endearing. Not only she snored, but she moved as if she was disputing a triathlon competition, leaving him without the bed sheet for most of the time. Actually, it was not hard to get used to a heavy sleeper like her, and John admits to himself that it certainly isn't Mary the one who is keeping him awake since nearly eight whole nights, including the present one. During the day, John dozes wherever he can, at the table during the interval between courses, in his study between an appointment and another, even in the bath. During the night, instead, he just wears pajamas and snuggles under the covers. His brain is full of thoughts, images, imaginary conversations and actual conversations, and there's no herbal tea that can make him sleep.  
Of course, he can't overlook the SMS that Sherlock sends him every four hours, and he probably doesn't even realize it. They are all the same: the usual two words followed by the initials of his name. There's no sorrowful request to forgive him; just kind of a promise full of selfishness and impatience as usual. John can imagine him perfectly as he wanders bored at 221b and asks him for some favors, realizing with annoyance that he isn't there. He does not know with certainty why he is so sure, but he always had the belief that Sherlock is immutable, like a sort of pattern that repeats equal to itself. The messages do nothing but prove his theory, yet the tenacity of Sherlock amazes him. Maybe Mary was right, perhaps it is Sherlock's own way of showing John how much he misses him, or maybe her attempts to psychoanalyze his best friend was worse than he thought.  
Two days ago, John saw on TV and all over the papers the announcement of Sherlock being alive and innocent, next to a numerous group of stranger yarders that to his astonishment didn't include Lestrade, and the figure of his older brother barely visible behind him on the sidelines. John wonders what Sherlock felt as he demonstrated to the world his innocence and owns his life again. In the pictures his eyes were devoid of the usual boldness.  
Synchronizing his breath with the rhythm of Mary's snoring, John thinks with his head between his hands. He lived those eight days in a kind of limbo, trying to go ahead with his life as he was used to, without being overwhelmed by Sherlock again. He thought that he had put together the pieces and saw a bright future ahead of him, a future in which he and Mary grew old together. But everything crashed.  
Mary is an extraordinary woman, he kept repeating it to everyone who asked about his marriage. He had never met a better listener than Mary. It wasn't love at first sight, they remained just friends for several months, only going out to talk about anything that was going on in their heads and tell each other about their lives. John had spoken for more than a year and a half about Sherlock than of the rest of her life and she had paid off with a sincere interest. John realized that he sometimes described his friend in a too flattering way, but he was spontaneous and Mary had come almost to idealize him. She immediately believed in his innocence and even though John knew that Mary was the gullible and impressionable type that gave her the certainty to believe him, he had begun to love her. With her sincere smiles and the exuberant outbursts of affection, she had become an important person in his life, a sort of savior who happened to pass by during the storm, no less important to him than Sherlock, whom was the exact opposite. He was pain and regret, she was the joy of life and the joy of future projects. He had learned to see them as two sides of the same coin, because they were very different and similar at the same time. Sherlock is cold and chaotic, Mary affectionate and orderly, yet they are both childish and peevish. John's psychoanalyst had pointed out to him that it was rather unusual and troubling making parallels between your best friend and your wife as if they were equivalent figures, and since then John had stopped talking about it. The truth was that for him they were equivalent and Mary was aware of it. She was certainly not jealous of Sherlock: she had learned to admire him through John's storytelling and with her wide imagination; she had made him a legendary figure. John Watson's life was almost perfect; he had a wife he loved, a job that allowed him enough free time to take care of flowerbeds and a best friend to visit at the cemetery whenever he felt the need. He had no more nightmares or regrets, and he thought that everything was finally going into the right direction.  
Everything worked perfectly right until Sherlock returned. John cannot understand how he feels right now. He's angry, that's for sure, but is also happy, scared and upset. It is as if two important stages of his life were collapsing on each other bringing him towards chaos. The same face of the coin is now split in two. In one side there is Sherlock and on the other side there is Mary. He should not feel torn between the two, forced to make a choice that would be unfair in both cases, yet it is exactly what he feels like. John turns to his wife and gently caresses her blond hair that spreads out on the pillow. He is gripped by a sense of guilt that he cannot understand. He sighs, preparing himself to lie down again and try to sleep for the umpteenth time, when his cell phone vibrates again.

_I'll be waiting – SH_

It is the first time that Sherlock sends the usual message after a few minutes and John is deeply impressed as if he had just heard a sour note in a musical composition that was played very well. John's stomach hurts, and his jaw aches because he grits his teeth to try to suppress the agitation.  
Maybe Sherlock needs him, and he has an incredible desire to see him again.  
Without thinking any further, with sweaty fingers he types cursing inwardly a short answer and presses the "enter" key almost angrily.

_I will come tomorrow morning at eleven o'clock, I have the morning off. Just to talk.  
_

* * *

Sherlock wanders relentlessly like a ghost in Baker Street, with an untied robe flapping and messy locks on his head. Should he dress better? Replace the desk? Should he remove the embalmed foot from the table? Yes, probably, it would be more appropriate. Even just the fact of asking himself all these questions and feeling so nervous about a stupid meeting makes him uneasy. John will come to visit. John almost certainly was exhausted of his continuous messages and just wants to tell him to stay out of his life forever, or maybe he wants forgive him. Weighing the con and pro, the first hypothesis is much more likely. Sherlock hits his forehead with the palm on his hand and then sinks into the chair in agitation.  
"What are you looking at?" He shrieks to the skull that seems to observe him critically on the shelf above the chimney.  
John will come in fourteen minutes and forty-five seconds, and Sherlock is still in pajamas messing up his hair violently.  
A beep coming from the table distracts him for a moment. With a leap he gets up from his chair and grabs the cell phone, frowning as he reads the sender's name on the display.

_Calm down – MH_

Sherlock throws the phone on the couch with a snort and raises his arms to the sky. He didn't really need the person he hates the most in the world to cheer him up with his meddling. As usual it is inappropriate and intrusive and does nothing but fuel his nervousness.

_Why do you write messages while you're in a meeting at Buckingham Palace? The Queen would not approve – SH_

While angrily clicking on the send button he vividly hears footsteps on the stairs.  
"Sherlock, you didn't dress yet?" Mrs. Hudson has appeared in the doorway carrying a tray in her thin arms.  
"John is coming, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock's voice is lower than usual, and his gaze is lost in space.  
"I know, dear, is the tenth time that you mention it today! That's why I made tea and I brought some cookies. "She smiles at him encouragingly before heading to the kitchen to set the tray on the table.  
Sherlock plasters a fleeting grin on his face when the strangled yell of Mrs. Hudson reaches his ears.  
"Is that a foot of a man?" The voice of the poor woman who comes towards him wide eyed is weak and trembling.  
"Would you please put it in your freezer, Mrs. Hudson? Mine is full." Sherlock says just in time before the woman turns in a flash and disappears down the stairs. He sighs deeply, not even scaring Mrs. Hudson manages to calm him down.  
Another beep coming from the couch warns him that Mycroft is not going to leave him alone.

_Put some clothes on. Make yourself presentable and try to make a good impression. Put your foot in the fridge if the freezer is full – MH_

Seven minutes and sixteen seconds.

* * *

When the heavy footsteps of John alight on the seventeen steps that separate them from the main entrance - his - apartment, Sherlock is sitting elegantly on the black armchair, his hands on the chair's arms and legs crossed. He was wearing one of his usual full-blacks and a white shirt that has found in the closet with a gleam of satisfaction. The nervous and unsure man of before is but a distant memory.  
"John", he greets him with a neutral tone that betrays nothing of what he felt last week. He does not get any response.  
When he looks up, John is standing in the doorway, with clenched fists. John's eyes roam the room, they lay on the couch on which they sat many times together and back to him again, they dwell on the desk where they kept their laptops facing each other, they set on Sherlock again, then stop on the chairs on which they dropped tired after solving a case and come back on him once again. Everything in that room reminds him of Sherlock and John, their crazy days spent running around London, the discussions and the childish Sherlock's reactions, the blood stains on the carpet, on the pillows and the curtains. To see Sherlock sitting on the chair with his usual attitude of who doesn't know how it is to have never gone out of tune with the pain that John has lived within the walls. At the same time it seems right and normal, just as it should be. A miracle that he had asked, without hope for it to come true.  
"Would you like some tea?" Sherlock spoke to him without even looking at him. John does not feel ready to talk, not yet. He closes his eyes for a moment and breathes, making a mental note of Sherlock's smell that has already spread in Baker Street. When he opens them he finds Sherlock standing by the fireplace with his right hand pointing to the armchair on which he sat the first time he set foot in the apartment, and the last time he had the courage to enter. John automatically approaches Sherlock, glancing at the kitchen and at the table almost cleared of all the utensils. There is only a microscope and a new pair of beaker. When he reaches the chair, Sherlock finally looks at his eyes and furrowed his brows unequivocally betraying his concern for the outcome of that meeting. It is only a moment, because as soon as John sits Sherlock immediately averts his gaze and pours the tea for him into the cup, then he clears his throat and murmurs a quick "Mrs. Hudson has also made cookies."  
When he hands him the cup, John thanks him with a nod. John's throat is completely dry so he decides to take a sip of tea before trying to speak. Sherlock doesn't take his eyes off from him for even a moment and watches him with his head tilted slightly as John brings the cup to his mouth and sips his tea again. The embarrassment that defines their first meeting after Sherlock's return is still present, amplified by the distance of that week in which John did not want to look for him. As they sit facing each other in silence, John feels that it is now time to talk and deal with the speech that fear both of them.  
"How are you?" he says uncertain.  
"I'm fine," Sherlock replies quickly, looking down to the saucer.  
"You've lost weight."  
"You too. This was the conversation I expected that would take place during our first meeting, not the one we had eight days ago. "  
John begins to move in the chair, as if he were sitting on an uncomfortable stool.  
"Should I apologize for punching you, Sherlock? After what I went through, after what you've put me through? "  
"No, I suppose not."' Sherlock's tone is slightly irritated and John takes the note with amazement. He places the cup on the saucer and puts it back on the tray; he wipes his hands on his jeans, indicating that he is about to leave.  
"Do you know what, Sherlock? I was wrong to come here. I should have not listened to Mary. "  
"What did that woman say?"  
"That woman is called Mary and she's my wife." John significantly raised his voice and then became silent, waiting for the other so that he rectifies his question.  
"What your wife has to do with anything?" Sherlock spits out in anger, uttering the word wife with a grimace on his face.  
"She told me to forgive you, Sherlock. To try, at least. She insisted for days. I shouldn't have listened to her and trust my instincts. "John jumps up and Sherlock imitates him immediately.  
"No." Sherlock's scream amazes both of them and the silence falls in the room. They remain there for a few seconds looking at each other as they remember those three years of distance, loneliness and longing and see them reflected in each other eyes.  
Sherlock is the first to succumb. He swallows, takes a deep breath and prepares himself to pronounce a word that he'd barely used in his thirty years of life.  
"I'm sorry."  
John's eyes widen and he raises his eyebrows in disbelief.  
"I'm sorry, John," Sherlock repeats, raising his eyes upwards, "I don't want you to go."  
John remains dumbfounded for a moment, with pursed lips and swollen veins on his neck; Sherlock stares at him without blinking. A moment later, without even realizing it, John finds himself sat on the chair again and Sherlock seats as well.  
John's anger begins to subside gradually as he frowningly looks at Sherlock and his fingers caress the edge of the cup. For a moment it seems that those three years have never passed and that Moriarty never entered their lives. After all they've been through, both of them are still together, healthy and not broken, and they can still look at each other. John's eyes linger for a moment too long on Sherlock's face and he notices the nasty scar he has on his forehead around the hairline. He protrudes forward to look more closely and Sherlock stiffens immediately, realizing John's confusion.  
"The scar," says John with an avail tone, pointing at it with a light movement of his hand.  
Sherlock caresses it with his index finger but he doesn't respond.  
"Who stitched you up? It's really ... "John manages to complete the sentence only with an eloquent grimace.  
"No one did, that's the problem," Sherlock cuts short curling the right side of his lip upwards. Without thinking, John rushes onto the carpet, and falls on his knees in front of Sherlock's chair.  
Fixing his eyes on the scar as he raises his hand to touch him. Sherlock pulls back as he tightens his fists on the armchair, obviously annoyed.  
"What are you doing?"  
"Who did this to you? With what? "John questions him, resting his hands on the armchair just a few inches away from Sherlock's hands and keeps watching him closely.  
Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but the words die on his lips. His face darkens and for the first time, looking at those eyes usually overflowing with arrogance, John sees a new, unknown sadness. For the first time John has the uncunning and sincere desire to know what happened to Sherlock during the three years he spent away from him, alone with his delusions.  
"You didn't tell me everything, right?" It's more a statement than a question. Sherlock doesn't need to answer and indeed he remains motionless, clearly uncomfortable with a stiff and unnatural expression that betrays an indifferent one on his face. Seeing Sherlock so different from the person he used to know makes John feel an intense emotion that he can't understand and he is not able to determine whether it is positive or negative. The anger slowly begins to give way to feelings of relief, worry and happiness. A violent and overwhelming happiness fills his chest and forces him to breathe deeply.  
His best friend is alive. He will never need to speak again with a dark tombstone in the silence of a desolated graveyard. Sherlock is in front of him in person, and he never ceases to amaze him.  
John watches his hand move slowly until it touches with the tip of Sherlock's index finger, who unexpectedly doesn't pull away. John gently caresses the back of his soft slender hand, going up to the wrist, forearm and elbow, looking up only when he rests his fingers on his bony shoulder. Sherlock carefully avoids looking at him and keeps staring into space in an apparent defensive move, as if the eyes of the other could read him. John smiles at his childish attitude and tightens his grip on Sherlock's coarse jacket, then moves onto his back and caresses it gently with the palm of his hand.  
"John ..." Sherlock seems to warn him.  
They look at each other's eyes, their faces are not far away from the other as their breaths mingle. The air is filled with tension and expectation, Sherlock suddenly just clicks forward toward the face of the other, in a fit of unconsciousness that vanishes soon after. But Sherlock suddenly stops and looks away, frowning with the obvious intent of thinking. John then pushes towards him and tightens him in a big hug, resting his chin on Sherlock's shoulder. He has never hugged him before, and it feels weird. Sherlock's body seems fragile and strong at the same time: he is afraid to tighten his grip too much but at the same time it's as if he knew that it would be of no harm. Sherlock does not reciprocate his grip, but that's okay. John doesn't care, not now that he can feel him alive.  
A faint sound of footsteps startles John, who frees Sherlock from his tight hug to be able to turn toward the door. He can see the back of Mrs. Hudson just before she disappears behind the wall.  
"Mrs. Hudson!" He calls as he gets up with a grunt, rubbing his knees, and she reappears with her shoulders hunched and an embarrassed expression on her face.  
"I didn't mean to interrupt you," she murmurs softly, "but I heard your voice, John, and I wanted to say hi ... after all this time ..." She represses a sob while covering her mouth with one hand.  
John approaches her fast and kisses both her cheeks gently, smiling at her. The woman caresses his face and whispers a shy "welcome back".  
When he turns back to Sherlock, John sees him still motionless in his chair with his hands clenched into fists making his knuckles white and a frown fixed somewhere else on the carpet.

* * *

NOTES:  
This story was originally written in Italian and the extremely kind lovercandi (lovercandi . tumblr . com ) offered to translate it into English.  
The title of the story and the titles of the chapters are taken from the wonderful song "Here is the house" by Depeche Mode.


	2. And it feels like home

**CHAPTER 2: AND IT FEELS LIKE HOME**

The equivalent conductance of a solution of an electrolyte at infinite dilution is equal to the sum of the speed of a cation and an anion, which is formed by the electrolyte. Mobility, which at infinite dilution does not affect one another.

Lestrade has been cursing for at least half an hour and Sherlock tries to occupy his time mentally repeating the law of the independent mobility of the ions. The inspector showed up at 221b at lunchtime, after giving him a surprised look in which Sherlock caught a glimpse of a well-concealed relief, he went on to tell him the terrible days they had gone through because of him in the last three years. Had it not been for the all too predictable intervention of Mycroft, Greg would not have kept his job at Scotland Yard after the huge scandal he was involved in. His brother had furrowed his eyebrows with his usual skeptical expression when they had spoken about it the first time, but Sherlock was adamant: Lestrade's career was not supposed to sink along with his reputation. He had been suspended for four weeks, so it was enough to fill the front pages of newspapers with some exciting news of the suicide of an imposter.

"Are you listening, Sherlock Holmes? I'm talking to you and I demand your attention, for once!" Lestrade raises his voice even more and approaches the sofa on which a distracted and disheveled Sherlock sits wrapped in his usual robe.

"Of course, Inspector." 192.217 ± 0.003 u. Atomic mass of the iridium.

"Thank you for saving my life... whatever you want, I don't care. You have not been here in the past three years, and now you appear and you expect that everything will get back to normal? Seriously, Sherlock? I thought I had driven you to suicide, that I had betrayed you. Didn't you think even for a second that I would have the right to know that it was all a lie?"

"I had more important things to think about than your own remorse, Lestrade!" Sherlock finally looks into his eyes, glaring at him as if he had interrupted one of his hardest reasonings.

"What about that poor man, Sherlock? Not even his feelings were important to you? I thought that at least you gave a damn about John. Oh God, you should have seen him." Lestrade brings his hand to cover his eyes as a broken sigh escapes his lips, he's angry and frustrated. "I don't know what would have happened if he hadn't met Mary. Would you forgive yourself so easily if something serious had happened to him?"

"These assumptions that had been previously disproven don't interest me, Lestrade. My job doesn't work that way, you should know. John is doing well." Sherlock jumps up and goes to the window, giving his back to the Yarder without turning even when he senses his presence getting close again.

"No thanks to you. You have already met Mary, right? "Greg's tone suddenly becomes calmer, full of bitter sarcasm.

"Of course."

"And of course you'll stick your nose in with your brilliant deductions about her past and your inappropriate observations, right?" Sherlock turns around with furrowed brows and clenched jaw, ready to pounce on the inspector like a fury and spit on him words about his sad and lonely life that led him to take care of personal affairs that not even remotely were his business. He opens his mouth with his speech already printed in his mind palace in capital letters, but the sound does not come out. That's what he intends to do, right? Make John understand that woman will never give him what he needs. The adrenaline. The battlefield. Feelings that a secure job in a private clinic and a patch of garden to care for on a Saturday morning cannot provide. Yet he realizes that Mary is not like all the others. He noticed it from the serene expression that John has in the wedding photo framed in their kitchen. From his face perfectly shaved with an accuracy, which he had begun to lose when they were roommates; from the looks full of meaning and complicity that the two had exchanged in the few seconds the three of them were in the same room. He's perfectly aware of the ambiguity of the concept of justice, but for a moment he is surprised of the fact that he doubts that separating that woman from John is the _right_ thing to do.

Lestrade interprets Sherlock's silence as a guilty plea, and the frown on his face deepens even more.

"Don't try to look for me, Sherlock. Now that you're famous you surely won't have to worry about finding customers, right? I have learnt to do things without your help in these past three years, and London is still standing. Enjoy the solitude you deserve. "

"Don't be so theatrical, Lestrade, it doesn't suit you." Sherlock's words reach the inspector's ears just in time before he disappears into the stairwell with a light swish of his raincoat. The door slams and Sherlock snorts raising his eyes to the heaven. He knows that Lestrade will back: surely he will come to face a slightly more complicated case and he will pass a sleepless night, maybe two, trying to figure it out, and when he isn't able to do so, he will come with the usual attitude of "I hate you but I desperately need your help." Lestrade will return because some things don't change, even after years of fake suicides and thousands of miles away.

As he angrily opens his laptop to check the 269 e-mails he has received from potential customers after the announcement of his return, he says to himself smirking that really some things never change. It doesn't matter if he's married, it doesn't matter if he's not living at the moment in Baker Street, it doesn't even matter if he has an intense and particular relationship that woman ; John will get back to his old life because he can't help it.

And he will try to convince him with the most abstruse and exciting cases until he realizes it.

* * *

When Sherlock gets off from the cab and deftly slips into the gap between the half open gate and the wooden fence - an architectural detail that clashes slightly with the London style of the walls of the neighboring houses - the driveway of the house of John and Mary in Algernon Road is illuminated by the strong sunlight, which forced him to wring his eyes as he reached the door with a few strides. He clears his throat and rings the bell longer than the good education says to. He's sure that John has the afternoon shift that day and since it's only ten in the morning he's sure to find him at home.

Not receiving any response for thirty seconds, Sherlock rings again, annoyed, and this time even longer. He starts tapping his fingers on the smooth surface of the door lacquered in white until he heard the sound of footsteps coming from inside the house. It's not John: the steps are lighter and slightly faster.

The door suddenly opens and reveals the small figure of Mary wrapped in a mallow bathrobe. Her blond hair is dripping wet on her shoulders covered with a white towel. She reeled her eyes for a moment when she saw the tall and towering figure of Sherlock silhouetted in the doorway, but she recomposed herself soon after.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

"Miss Morstan." The woman noticed how he used her maiden name and the title of "miss", and curled her lips into an amused smile. "I need to talk with John." Sherlock's tone instead is anything but amused.

"He's not home. One of his colleagues gave forfeit at work and he had to replace him, he'll be home at four o'clock."

Sherlock felt a surge of anger devour his chest. That day John had the afternoon shift but it took a stupid mishap of an unknown man to change completely the plan. He hates not being aware of things and he hates even more not being aware of the details of John's life. The woman standing at the entrance instead, proud of her bathrobe as if it were a cape, is aware of his every movement.

"I'll be back at three, then." Sherlock keeps scrutinizing her with an obvious hostile glare but he makes no move.

"No, wait! I'll offer you anything, if you give me time to get dressed." Mary moves to the side, motioning him to get in. Is it an expression of challenge the one Sherlock sees on her face? The man tilts his head and her smile accentuates even more.

"John told me that you tilt your head when you think. I can assure you I don't hide a gun in the pocket of the robe, I am harmless!" Mary turns without waiting for an answer and begins to climb the stairs. "Sit wherever you want, I'll be right back," she adds when she's already up the stairs.

Sherlock lingers still on the door for a moment, before entering. The woman is foolishly not hostile: well, more time to observe her will be useful to his intent. Sherlock closes the door behind him and walks into the kitchen taking off the scarf from his neck while throwing a quick glance to the room. He sits down on the nearest chair without taking off his coat and crosses his long legs, looking around with meticulous attention. Phalaenopsis orchids with two yellowish flowers are resting on the center of the table, along with a note stuck between the large leaves. Sherlock throws a quick glance at the entrance, not hearing any noise he quickly grabs the note and opens it. He twists his mouth into a disgusted grimace when he reads the message.

_I love you more every day._

_John_

Sherlock's eyes linger on the crooked letters of the signature of his best friend a moment longer than necessary. His calligraphy is more precise than what he remembered and the pressure on the ink is deep: John was particularly fond of the result of his gesture. Clearly it's not their anniversary because it's only been a few months of marriage, nor it's Mary's birthday because he knows that's not the kind of gift that John would choose for a woman in such an occasion - a jewel, John would choose a trivial, useless, expensive jewelry. Maybe it's a spontaneous show of affection, most probably justified by an undefined sense of guilt. He almost certainly flirted with a cashier at Tesco's or a colleague.

Boring.

"His romance is sometimes tedious, isn't it?"

Sherlock suddenly turns and Mary is behind him, her hair still wet but she is dressed in a suit of purple chenille - significant detail, John gave her a plant with flowers in a color that she clearly likes. A careful choice, not a random one.

He closes in a second the envelope and puts it exactly in its place, avoiding comment on the words of Mary. The attempt to establish a relationship of complicity with her to please John is foolish and childish, and Sherlock is not going to encourage it. He turns to look at the woman who still has not dared to get closer and scrutinizes her with open hostility.

"Come on, do it. I know you want to."Mary crosses her arms over her chest and smiles.

"What are you talking about?" It's the first time that Sherlock is forced to ask a question and his tone is harsh and annoyed.

"Your deductions. I'm curious to hear what you have to say about me!"

"My work is not a game, Miss Morstan. I don't have time to keep you entertained, I'm sorry."Sherlock stands up clutching the long coat and strikes with yet another icy stare.

"Come on, Sherlock, I'm asking you please ... I know that sometimes you do it to impress people." Mary gives him an encouraging smile and approaches the detective with her hands on her hips.

"And why would I want to impress you of all people, Mary Morstan?"

"Because I'm the wife of your best friend and we should try to know each other. And I love the stories that John told me, to hear you make deduction in person would be a dream come true!" Mary begs him as she blinks her bright blue eyes and Sherlock slightly curls the corner of his mouth in an imperceptible smile of satisfaction. He will give her what she wants and he will be more ruthless than ever. He had to deal with many of John's girlfriends and he had categorized them in two different categories: there were some who have cunningly seen him as a threat since the first day, and others who have foolishly attempted to build an alliance with him, or at least a truce, pretending to be curious and comprehensive. Mary belongs to the latter list, she's but one of many. They think they're sneaky, to _conquer_ him with cups of tea and inappropriate gifts, and the failure of all their bright intentions does nothing but hasten the time of the break.

Sherlock clears his throat and curls his lips looking at Mary carefully from head to toes, pretending to observe and deduce at that exact moment.

"Former teacher, you quit your job to find your way which you haven't found yet, you have artistic ambitions - you paint copies of famous paintings like the one hanging in the kitchen and you delight in singing – but you cannot turn them into profitable activities for obvious lack of talent. You had a very rich boyfriend who died before celebrating the wedding, so you didn't get a penny of his money even though expensive gifts such as the necklace you're wearing at this very moment is what he has left you. Bulgari, white gold, 18-carat blue topaz and pave diamonds" He paused a moment to show her the photo of the necklace on the display of the smart phone that he had found a few days before when thinking of their first meeting. "If he hadn't died you wouldn't have kept it and wouldn't wear it after your marriage with John, you would have sold it, because it has a very high value. You keep it mainly because it has sentimental value and this makes you - for your bad luck - a widow. You are not particularly overweight but your body is not toned, you have plenty of fat especially on your sides, and this shows that you never did any kind of sports. The way you dress totally lacks taste and the fact that you're letting your hair dry like that without even applying a smoothing cream on it shows a complete disinterest for your physical appearance, lack of interest that shows off with pride to emphasize your alternative personality and strong values. You are proud of your supposed simplicity and show off three photos of your simple and frugal wedding in one room, not to mention the photo of the young Indian girl you adopted from a distance thanks to an association that actually, for your information, invests the money it receives into a different kind of activity. Really, the ostentation of your goodism is sickening, perhaps even more of your much-vaunted originality and your worrisome passion for the color purple."

Sherlock interrupts the flow of words along with a dismissive wave of the hand, anticipating the insults that will be thrown at him once Mary stops to look at him gaping and recovers her speech. It was very easy to take away that unbearable conceited smile from her face. The woman is so shocked that surely at any moment, she will throw him out of the house and then call John in the fury of the mom...

"Wow." Mary's exclamation stops Sherlock's thoughts.

"Wow?" Echoed the detective, feeling the usual anger grip at him when he mistakes to predict a reaction.

"You're ... fantastic. It's all true, especially the bad parts! It's like if I had got an x-ray from you!" Mary laughs as she throws her head back with her wet hair that squirts a few drops of water on the bright wall which was recently whitewashed. "The tales of John don't make you justice, seriously."

"I don't doubt it. His blog has always been hasty and inaccurate" Sherlock says with resentment, before realizing that he's in John's new home talking about him with his wife, as if it were _normal_. Resentment turns to anger, and Sherlock feels the need to put as much distance as possible between himself and the reason why John is away from Baker Street.

"Now, if you don't mind, I have some urgent cases to attend to," he murmurs softly as he quickly puts the scarf around his neck passing by without even sparing her a glance, and strolls to the front door.

"What? You don't want anything, Sherlock? Coffee, tea?!" Mary calls out following him out of the house, to the garden, but she doesn't receive any response.

"Should I say something to John when he comes back?" She adds, raising her voice to be heard by the man that has now passed the gate. She sees him looking back and glares at her with a cold expression of contempt.

"I don't need messengers to talk to John, Miss Morstan."

Mary watches him walk away along the narrow road tight in his coat despite the rare, warm temperature, and starts to wonder how many and what amazing things about this man escape not only her and John, but to his own genius mind.

* * *

_I'm bored SH_

John rolls his eyes when he reads the message on the display, while Mrs. Hall awaits him sitting on the couch with her blouse unbuttoned.

_I'm working__, Sherlock._

To send the message he presses too hard on the touch screen with his index finger and puts the phone on the desk angrily.

"Doctor, I'm starting to feel cold."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Hall, I'll be there in a second!" John takes a grim look at his cell phone and approaches the bed showing off his best smile. The poor old lady looks at him with raised eyebrows and doesn't return the courtesy.

"Take off your blouse, I have to examine your lungs."

While approaching the stethoscope to the old woman's skin, the mobile phone vibrates again, moving a few inches above the desk, and John suddenly gasps. He deliberately ignores it and clears his throat, turning gently to Mrs. Hall.

"Take a deep breath ..."

The phone vibrates for the umpteenth time.

"Excuse me, I'll be right back, just ..." John doesn't finish the sentence and rushes to his desk.

_Come home SH_

_Immediately __SH_

It seems like everything is like before. Sherlock asks, Sherlock claims, Sherlock demands. He saw him only twice and still has not totally forgiven him and he already starts to behave like a spoiled child. He hasn't won: he must understand that John now has a good job, a wife, a house, and cannot send everything to hell for his mood swings.

_I cannot, __Sherlock__. __I'll __turn off the phone__. __If you get bored __try to read __a __good book or watch __something __on TV._

Satisfied with his resolve, he turns off his phone and he even puts it back in his bag before a weak voice reminds him he is at work.

"Doctor, can we do this a little faster? My cats are alone. "

"Forgive me, Mrs. Hall, I ... have problems at home." John approaches the bed and before putting on the stethoscope, for a moment he thinks back to when 221b was really his home and Sherlock 's problems were also his. He cannot understand if the grip on the pit of his stomach is nostalgia, and he simply decides to stop questioning himself.

* * *

He should have been home since a couple of hours, but with two colleagues calling sick from work the situation is so critical in the clinic that he willingly accepts to stay beyond the end of his shift. On the other hand, the extra shifts make him comfortable, since his bank account - that after his marriage has become 'their' bank account - had dangerously dropped due to the purchase of their house. After putting on his jacket and saying goodbye to Kristie, the nurse who stays at the medical acceptance, John remembers, almost three hours later, that he had switched off his phone. It's difficult for him to find it right away since his bag is full of sheets, and when he does he turns it on impatiently. Shuddering thinks again about Sherlock and his "crisis of boredom." He fully deserved it, but now that John thinks of him alone, victim of his own brain, the satisfaction of giving him a lesson gives way to anxiety and concern. He types and erases the PIN twice before he types it right, as he waits for the smart phone to start he taps with his index finger on the screen.

He has received four messages, three from Sherlock and one from Mary.

_Boring __SH_

_You really __turned off the phone__, I am surprised __by your __newfound __seriousness__ about your __work __SH_

_Come __please __SH_

_Darling, __did you have to stay longer in the hospital? __You were supposed to __be home __at four__...__I didn't call you to not disturb you__. __Let me know when __you get back. xxx_

Taking a mental note to call Mary as soon as possible, John stares with apprehension at the third message of Sherlock, sent nearly an hour after the other two. "Please." Few times in eighteen months of cohabitation Sherlock had used those words, and never lightly. He calls him immediately and while he anxiously listens to the rings of the phone, he walks briskly toward the subway station directed to Baker Street. He disconnects the call and he calls him again with no success until he reaches the entrance to Paddington station and the phone loses its signal. While walking towards the track he almost starts to run, hitting the tourists who walk uncertain and with no hurry as they enjoy their short vacation. He apologizes even when is able to avoid the impact. During the short trip - just three stops because just as his house, he had chosen his place work to be not far from Baker Street- he doesn't even take a seat just for the sake of jumping off the train faster. His legs start to get wobbly more than he ever could admit to himself. One of his biggest fears starts to make its way into his mind: he knows enough about Sherlock's past and his addiction to cocaine to be worrying about such a matter. The only person whom he had the courage to ask for help ignored him and he finds himself completely alone at the mercy of his hyperactivity. He knows that the actual trigger of his addiction was exactly that lethal mix between boredom and loneliness, and he hopes with all of his heart that Sherlock has found some experimenting to do or that he has blown up the stoves, burnt the carpet or flooded the bathroom. Anything but the drug, he says to himself as the train slows down until it comes to a halt, and the sliding doors opens before him.

The way up to his old apartment is frantic and frenetic and John doesn't think of anything anymore as he walks in brisk and find himself in front of the 221b short on breath. As soon as he rings the bell, a distraught Mrs. Hudson appears on the doorway.

"Oh, John ... I thought you wouldn't come anymore," she whispers as if afraid to speak up, "It's ... Sherlock."

"What's going on?" John barely pays her any attention as he rushes up the stairs. The woman doesn't answer and she lets him go upstairs as he takes the steps two at a time with his heart in his throat.

John stops in the doorway of the living room and looks around with wide eyes, unwillingly inhaling the air filled with smoke.

He has never seen that room tidy, but the way it's in that moment beats his worst memories. The pillow with the union jack which usually lies in the chair is a few inches from his feet, not far away from a dozen books that should be on the bookshelf. On the mantelpiece, on the desk and on the floor are scattered sheets full of notes, beakers, cups, musical scores, test tubes and cigarette butts. Everything is covered in goose feathers of different colors and sizes of which John understands the origin when he sees a pillow cut in half abandoned on the sofa. Amid the chaos, sitting in the chair opposite his desk, he sees Sherlock's shoulders covered by the same robe that three years before he had hung thoroughly in the closet with tears in his eyes and trembling hands. He feverishly runs a web page and every now and then mutters incomprehensible words through clenched teeth.

"Sherlock ..." John calls him uncertainly moving a few steps towards him, careful not to step on anything.

"Oh, here is our diligent doctor! What an honor to have you here, please! Sit down, would you like a cup of tea?" The tone of the detective, who speaks without looking back, is deeper than usual and clearly altered.

"What ... what are you doing?"

"I'm trying to work John, I'm looking for a case worthy of the attention of the famous Sherlock Holmes as they write in the newspapers, but it seems that this city has lost its entire attitude to crime! Why does everyone continue to pester me with silly requests that they could easily fulfill fine on their own if only they weren't so damn dumb? "

"Sherlock, you have to calm down now..."

_"Dear Sherlock Holmes_" begins to read the detective in a mocking tone, "_every day in my supermarket five packs of moisturizer cream visage disappear, would you be so kind to help me to find out which of the salesgirls is the thief? Dear Sherlock Holmes, I am a huge fan of yours and __I would like to __ask you to __follow __my wife__. I think she's having an affair with someone else since months now, and I'd like to catch her with her hands in the jar. Dear Mr. Holmes, could you please help us look for our little dog, a beautiful four-year setter named Minnie? She disappeared twenty days ago._ Why they keep writing these things to me?!"

With a single angry gesture of his hand, Sherlock pushes the laptop still open off the desk and John, despite having the reflexes of a former soldier, has no way to prevent it from infringing on the floor with a deafening noise, dragging with it a cup and a test tube filled with a bluish liquid that spreads like wildfire on the floor. Mrs. Hudson rushes in the room in panic, but John makes her stay away shaking his head vigorously. He himself has no idea what to do: no matter how accustomed he is to the outbursts of his former roommate, this is far beyond anything that he had witnessed while living with him. Sherlock continues to sit backwards to him with his hands in his locks.

"Sherlock, you have to calm down now." He tries to show himself strong and resolute.

"Go buy a pack of cigarettes, John! I just finished them!"

"Let's go together. Come on, Sherlock, you need to get out."

"I have no need to go out!" Sherlock gets up again, turning back into a thunderous roar, "I need you to come and live here!"

Sherlock remains motionless and shuts his mouth immediately, continuing to give his back to John. The latter opens his mouth to answer, to reassure him or blame him of his damned selfishness, but he is unable to formulate any sentence that'd make any sense. He doesn't know whether to feel sad, guilty, or angry, but he knows for sure that during their cohabitation he has never seen him so out of control. John approached slowly laying a hand on his shoulder, which is quickly moved away from Sherlock with a quick gesture. John rolls his eyes and tries again, but Sherlock crosses his legs to turn away and then suddenly gets away from him. In the exact moment when John is going to start to rant against the detective for his childish attitude, footsteps echo down the stairs and they both turn toward the door. Mycroft Holmes' tall figure appears on the threshold accompanied by his usual umbrella and Sherlock snorts annoyed as soon as he notices his presence.

"So many visits tonight! Even my dear brother! What a joy! "

"Can I ask you to go home, John? Surely your wife is waiting for you. Everything here is under control now." Mycroft gives him the warmest of smiles as his eyes narrow slightly, cold and inquisitive. John hints a sarcastic laugh and shakes his head, letting the anger, which fills up into his body each time is in front of that man, drive away the thought of not having yet warn Mary.

"I'm not going to go away until Sherlock is feeling better." John stresses the words well and looks at him defiantly with his hands on his hips.

"I'm fine, I just need my job!" Sherlock intervenes watching both of them with hate.

"I brought you some files, Sherlock. If you have the patience to look t them..."

"I don't need to unravel your political intrigues, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupts him raising his voice again, "You don't have any government to make fall, tonight? Your sudden presence here disquiets me. "

John rolls his eyes exasperated in front one of the usual verbal fights between the Holmes brothers, and walks away: he has to call Mary and he needs a bit of silence. As he slowly takes the steps which lead downstairs, he browses the contact list on his phone book when a contact just above the one of Mary captures his attention. He starts the call without giving it too much thought, animated by an idea that probably will reveal to be idiotic. After a couple of rings on the other end, a sleepy Greg Lestrade answers the phone.

When ten minutes later he bursts again into the living room of 221b, out of breath after climbing the stairs two at a time, Sherlock had started to play giving his back to Mycroft who still tries to talk to him. John approaches to the oldest brother and with a hint of satisfaction, points out his complete failure.

"You didn't have much luck, apparently." The corners of his mouth curls into a sarcastic smile. "I have an idea, I hope it will work."

"Then I leave everything to you, Dr. Watson." Mycroft tightens his grip on the handle of the umbrella and raises his chin. Mycroft strangely doesn't s mile but he looks at him with an expression of unequivocal rebuke before turning on his heel to disappear into the darkness of the stairwell light and solemn at the same time. John didn't waste any time and immediately approaches Sherlock, calling him quite loudly to cover the loud noise of the notes of the violin. The detective doesn't even seem to hear him and continues to play, rubbing the bow across the strings with growing fury.

"Lestrade called me to offer us a case."

The melody stops suddenly and Sherlock turns with his eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed, glaring at him.

"You really are the worst liar I've ever known John, and I think I have known many of them."

"Okay, you're right, I was the one who called him. He has a case on his hands, Sherlock. A four maybe a five ... apparently a showdown between gangs, but the victim's wound is atypical and he cannot understand what's the murder's weapon ... "John tries to add as many details as possible to pique the curiosity of his friend.

"I thought we had agreed that I wouldn't leave Baker Street for any case less than a seven. Did you forget it by any chance?" Sherlock turns back and leans his chin on the violin, ready to start playing again.

"Sherlock, think about it! You have nothing on your hands, it's an exception! Solve a four and the next time Lestrade will give you a case of a seven. "

The detective seems to think about it for a few seconds, before lowering the violin and snorting loudly.

"Will my blogger join me or even a case of four is too dangerous for a married man?" Sherlock gets up and stands in front of him, staring into his eyes down from his six feet. He's disheveled and his pupils are dilated more than normal, but he's always the same. The usual arrogant, unpredictable, exhausting Sherlock that with a single glance drags him around London and drugs him of adrenaline. John sighs and he doesn't answer, freezing that moment of uncertainty that he already went through. Once he surely would have answered, "Oh God yes" without thinking twice, but he's no longer the man he was before, the man in need of danger to feel alive. In front of the dark tomb of his best friend, three years before, he had said to himself he finally had had enough. His psychoanalyst has wisely told him that his imprudent and reckless life had died with Sherlock, but now that he sees him in front of him alive he starts to wonder where that part is. Get involved again, waiting for a new Moriarty, new lies and other sleepless nights.

"You are not sure if you want to come" Sherlock easily interprets his silence.

John falls silent once again and lowers his guilty eyes on Sherlock's bare feet that are a just ten centimeters away from his shoes. A short trail of blood traces a clear path between the armchair and the tips of the feet of the detective. Apparently, Sherlock had walked on broken pieces of the cup that has been smashed by the laptop.

"Damn it, Sherlock, you're hurt!" His tone is more annoyed than worried, and John tries to correct it immediately. "If you sit for a second I'll treat you," he added, shaking his head slowly, still staring at the red spots on the floor.

Sherlock throws his head up about to spit some sharp sentences on his ability to endure physical pain, but he's interrupted immediately."I'm coming. The crime scene is in Hackney in an abandoned warehouse."

John saw the same blood tinge the asphalt of a pavement. He simply decides to follow Sherlock, and this time he doesn't do it for a spasmodic desire to put himself in danger: he must prevent it from happening again.

When the other disappears into the kitchen with a light movement of his robe, probably directed towards his room to change his clothes, he opens his mouth and breathes deeply to get rid of that oppressing feeling that had accompanied him since that day of June, three years before. He brings a hand to his chest and sighs, backing slowly to let himself fall into the chair in which usually Sherlock sits. He feared losing him again for a simple cut under his foot. John lets out a hysterical laugh before tightening the bridge of his nose between his thumb and his forefinger and focuses on the sound of his own breath to calm down.

"You're a soldier, John Watson," he whispers softly through clenched teeth. Nothing happened, and Sherlock is a few feet away, alive and well. It makes no sense to feel the same feeling of 'overwhelming emptiness' - as she had readily defined - that made him sleepless after his fake death, that feeling that had lessen after he had known Mary…

_Mary_. He should have called her when he called Lestrade.

John curses angrily as he shoves his hand in his pocket to fish out his phone. He unlocks it with his heart in his throat, and when he finds four missed calls and three text messages he lets out a muffled moan.

_John__, I'm starting __to worry. __If you read this __message __call me __immediately__._

_May I know __where you are? __I called the __clinic __and they told me __that you left __an hour and __a half ago._

_Did you go to Sherlock? I don't have his number, the one on the website doesn't work anymore, and I can't find the one of Mrs. Hudson. Please let me know, you never acted like this._

The guilt for making her worry is clouded for a moment by a slight gesture of annoyance for a situation that immediately feels as wrong. He should be in his own house, with his wife, and not in an armchair in his old apartment waiting to go to a crime scene. He covers his face with his hands, snorting, and thinks about the best way to act. With no doubt he has to call her. Yet, as he turns the smart phone between his hands, he realizes that he doesn't want to hear Mary's voice, not now. Call her from 221b, explain the case, reassure her, and ask her to put something to eat aside for when he gets back: that would be something incredibly wrong. Starting with the fact that he has no idea when he will be back home. His life with Sherlock was not defined by regular rhythms, words such as "lunch" or "dinner" did not have a well-defined meaning. If you follow a consulting detective in his crazy investigation, you surely don't sign anywhere to make it obvious that your shift has ended, so it's not sure you'll be home in time for the afternoon tea. John scratches his neck, hating on himself for having even considered for a moment to ignore her messages and forget about them, he gasps when he hears Sherlock's footsteps down the hall that get closer fast. He hears him say "A stupid four!" When he's already in the kitchen, fully dressed.

"You got ready in record time," John says still seated and with his mind elsewhere. He must make a decision and must do so quickly. While Sherlock puts on his coat and his scarf, he quickly types a short text message.

_Mary__, I'm at Sherlock's. __He needed me__, I didn't have__ time to __warn you. __I'll make it up to you__, I swear. __Don't __wait for me__, __I'll __probably __be late._

He still hesitates for a moment before hitting the enter button, deciding only when the dark figure of his friend passes in front of him and rushes out the door and down the stairs.

"The address, John!" Sherlock screams from the ground floor, and John jumps up, almost running to catch up.

As John joins him on the sidewalk and he shows him the text message from Lestrade which describes the way the murder was committed, John doesn't think of anything, his mind is completely empty and still. He gets on the cab, he exchanges a few words with the taxi driver, feeling a destabilizing sense of unreality as if in a confused flashback. During the last three years he feared that the memories of his days with Sherlock would gradually leave him and in all honesty he would have wanted that in several occasions. Now more than ever he realizes that Sherlock is indeed not dead, he isn't forced to cling to the memories of the past but can build new ones together with him, alongside the only consulting detective in the world, who in that exact moment snorts and mutters on the seat a few inches from him. And for the first time in a long time, John feels somehow home.


End file.
